


The Voice With No Face

by alexa_please



Category: The Book of Lost Things
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_please/pseuds/alexa_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a modern alternate universe for John Connolly's "The Book of Lost Things", focusing mainly on Roland and Raphael (but other characters are included).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Roland

“DADDY’S HURT! WE HAVE TO GO BACK! WE HAVE TO GO BACK FOR HIM!”

“Roland, Daddy isn’t—”

“WE CAN’T LEAVE HIM—!”

**_BANG._ **

 

I hear police sirens outside the mall. I don’t care if they catch the hooded man anymore. If they do, they can sit him down, and interrogate him, and lock him in prison for the rest of his life, but what they do can’t and won’t change what’s happened here.

Mummy and I had been running down the strip leading to the back exit. We didn’t know how many armed men were in the building but she said this way out was our best chance and I trusted her. Trusted her even when I’d seen Daddy on the floor, face-down, the putrid black liquid dribbling from the exit wound.

Now she’s still. Like Daddy. I can’t wake her up. I’m screaming—sobbing—and it feels like the shock won’t pass over. Her body’s becoming cold. Nobody’s coming to help. People, faced with losses of their own, are crying out from the other side of the mall, where the hooded man has gone; those on this side are escaping with whatever loved one survived the endeavor, treading over the multiple bodies.

Is it my fault this happened to her?

If I had completely trusted Mum. If I hadn’t been crying to save Daddy. Christ, no. I collapse against Mummy’s side and try to squeeze under her arm. How will I tell my brothers and sisters what happened? Will they blame me? What are we…going to…

* * *

“Where—where are you taking them?”

“I’m sorry. Your sisters are going to better families. It’s going to be okay.”

“Wait—espera—you can’t take them and not me, too! They need me!”

“Oh, no. All three of you will be going separate ways, I’m afraid, and so will your brother.”

“You can’t—he’s—where are—get off of me—STOP! ISABEL! MAGDALENA!”

“Calm down, boy!”

_“NO!”_

  
The man is hardly allowed touch, but somehow my arms are pinned against his swollen belly and his eyes are bulging as he tries to keep me in place. My sisters, tended to by a slender woman in a Child Services uniform, are crying. They don’t know what’s going on, but we’re all being mishandled.

“Roland,” Magdalena sobs, her little voice mangled and hoarse, but that’s the way she always sounds. “Roland!”

I almost escape with a determined tug. The man’s elbow crashes into the side of my head and I yelp.

“Stop it! Stop hurting him!”

“Come now. Everyone is going to be okay.”

In disbelief, they’re twisting for a last look at me. I hold their gaze:  _I love you; don’t let this world do you ill, for I won’t be there to protect you anymore._ They give up the struggle and are taken away.

I’m thrown into a fusty, cramped room with too many bunk beds, and not enough ventilation. “This is your dorm,” the man says. “Do not unpack. There is a family interested in adopting you, but it will take time. You should be gone by tomorrow evening. For now, wash up and come down for breakfast.”

He slams the door.

* * *

“Oh, he’s crying again,” the woman says to her husband. She sounds heartbroken.

“He has to grow a thicker hide,” the man rumbles. His hair is curly and jet-black, and he’s built himself a chubby frame (particularly at the belly) that reminds me too much of the orphanage man.

“When he’s ready, he’ll come out.”

“Come out? On his own?”

_“¡Yo no sé! ¿Qué más te sugieres?”_

>I don’t know! What else do you suggest?

They speak my language, too.

The man groans about her being the one wanting kids in the first place, taking a furious leave. The woman—her face holds no immediate threat, but is the kind that can easily turn to vicious venom—kneels down. She doesn’t extend a hand. Just looks at me. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. I shake my head, clutching the table leg tightly, and tuck myself against my chest.

It’s more like she’s mumbling to herself now. “For this to happen to you…”

I don’t want to look at her. I don’t have to look at her! She’s not Mum! She never can be Mum!

* * *

Rice and beans. I love rice and beans. But there’s not enough room for me to eat without bending my neck, so I just stare.

“Ingrate,” the man scoffs, turning in another fit of anger and frustration.

The woman shakes her head. I don’t think she blames me.

* * *

I sleep under the table. It’s not comfortable. I have nightmares because there’s no light.

* * *

Would it be easier to put things behind me if I allowed them to happen? If I stopped hiding under the table and under the bed? If I let them bathe me like Mummy used to? If I let them play catch and board games with me? If I tag along to the grocery store?

Can I pretend everything’s going to be okay? Maybe Isabel and Magdalena and Antonio will do the same.

Tonight is the first night I bring myself to sleep in the bed—not under a deranged piece of furniture. The blankets are stiff, scratchy like canvas, too thin to make me feel whole.

But tonight is also the first night I find myself at peace. Although it’s only for three hours—I wake up with a start.

I grab a pillow, a pillow sticky with sleepy drool, and soundlessly creep down the rickety hallway. To the woman’s bedroom. She does not sleep with her husband.

The squeaky door comes open slowly. Yet the woman sits up straightaway, her wide, panicked eyes made by glassy by the moonlight. Alarmed, she whispers, “Roland? _¿Qué es, mi cielo?_ What is it?”

I cram my thumb in my mouth—stare and stare—what is it?

“Mamá...?” I choke out falteringly.

It’s a suggestion. Is Mamá an okay name? _If I call you Mamá, can I trust you? Can you help me forget the horrible things I’m left to relive?_

It’s not Mum. I’m not replacing anybody. I have two moms, from now on.

“Oh. Oh.” She pulls the blankets back. _“Sí,_ mijo. _Estoy aquí._ I’m here.” Mamá holds out her arms and I crawl towards them, and in that instant I’m safe beneath her wing.


	2. Chapter 1 - Roland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roland's family owns a music store, where starting from a young age he learns to play violin and then teaches younger students. He's the oldest child in the family so he's expected to take over the business when his parents are gone.

When Mrs. Hua first brings her son to our music store, I don't remember who he is.

Mrs. Hua had registered through the phone yesterday, and is already demanding one lesson a day for a trial of three weeks. Throughout elementary I’ve heard wild things about Raphael Hua’s musical talent, since he left South Fork to be home-schooled. I’d never had a real connection with him. So I hadn’t thought about him in a long, long time.

“Morning,” I call brusquely from the counter. “How may I help you?”

“Um,” Mrs. Hua stammers from the doorway, sizing me up with great wariness. “Are…are you—? I am here for Raphael’s violin lesson.”

I look back to the homework I smuggled in, disinterested. Mamá—she tunes instruments behind the counter with me—taps the edge of my textbook; I refuse to look up, out of spite, as it’s her fault I spend eight hours at school, eight hours working here, and eight hours sleeping.

“Who is his teacher?” Mamá asks the customer.

“Mr. Castillo? The man on the phone say Mr. Castillo…?”

“Violin?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hua grabs Raphael, who at the time is slumping like an invertebrate. He doesn’t make eye contact with her or even nod his head.

“Okay,” Mamá says, sifting through our master binder of every customer to ever do business here. “…Mmm. Head to the back room with my son.”

Wait, was _I_ in charge of teaching this oaf? I’d only ever tutored little kids.

“Your—your son?”

“Yes. He’s a good teacher. Trust me, or your money back.”

“A-ah. Okay, thank you.” Mrs. Hua doubles over to whisper something in Raphael’s ear. When she finishes, she kisses him on the cheek. Raphael clumsily returns it. Then he ambles closer to the counter, where he stands like an NPC until I decide I can figure this math problem out later.

“So…! What’s your name?” Raphael inquires.

He kicks lots of boxes and trips on his own shoes more than once. I pretend not to notice. “Roland Castillo.”

He asks, “What school do you go to, Mr. Castillo?”

I answer, “South Fork.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten,” I mumble. I shouldn’t be discomfited; he’s shorter than me. “I’m still allowed to teach.”

“Probably not legally! Are you in an orchestra?”

“Last year I was. I’ll be in honors this year.”

“Did you get to play all the first violin solos?”

“No. But that’s because the stakes are high,” I warn.

Raphael is about to ask more about my life story, but he’s forced to stop when I grab him by his collar. “Woah, where are you going!? Are you _daft?_   You damn near walked into the wall! We’re going to be in this _room._ Here.”

“I used to go to South Fork,” Raphael announces randomly. I tell him that’s nice, and the embarrassing thing is that I still don’t remember _who_ he is. Assuming it’s the way he copes with embarrassment, I ignore the oddity of his outburst and nudge him into the room. “Nuts, where are the chairs?” he says.

I pull out a plastic blue chair with uneven legs. Treat myself to the cushioned piano seat, which Raphael apparently doesn’t mind. “Right, open your case and I’ll show you how to set up,” I order. “Before anything, we should first go over—”

“Oh, I play already,” Raphael interrupts jovially, heaving the case into his lap. “I’ve been playing since first grade. It’s the only thing I’m good at, after all!”

Resentment keeps me from admiring his optimism. What do I do if he’s better than me?

But I’m a prodigy. He’s not; he can’t be better.

“If it’s the only thing you’re ‘good’ at,” I snap, “play me...something. Anything. Right now.”

Raphael is passive when it comes to the tone of my voice.  _Okey-dokey,_ he goes, and I wonder if he can even tell anything’s wrong. I watch as he carefully runs the block of used—now I see—rosin up and down his bow.

Compared to the other boys at school, I’ll relent that Raphael is a cute one. He has dark, narrowed eyes that are currently—and most often—blankly pointed at his feet. His russet hair is tousled, well-kept bangs sweeping a great deal of his forehead. I find myself caught on his smooth skin. And his delicate hands that shake as he struggles to get the shoulder rest on. He has moles all over his hands and face, but a particularly prominent one to the left of his mouth.

 _You have seen better_ , I remind myself sternly.

Raphael nods to himself and places the violin in his lap—slowly, gently, without startling me from my disconcerting trance. “What should I play?” he squeaks.

“I—oh, well, first, stand,” I suddenly remember, waving my hand at him to reinforce the order. “Always stand when you play. Sit when I lecture.”

It takes Raphael a spell, but he eventually rises from the cheap chair. He tucks his violin beneath his chin. Waiting.

I try not to be discouraging. “Play a song you already know?”

“I haven’t memorized anything you’d want to hear.”

“How do you what I _do_ want to hear?”

“I don’t.”

Christ. This is what we have sheet music for. At any rate, I can see he hasn’t a single page on him. “How about something you played in orchestra?” I suggest tiredly.

“I’m not…in an orchestra,” he admits, crossing his arm uncomfortably across his chest.

“Okay, you ponce,” I groan. “Play me a G-major scale. Is that so hard? G-major scale.”

He straightens up, eyes darting aimlessly all about the room, then sets his (trembling) bow in place. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale._ I’m about to scold him when he begins to play: and it’s nothing to holler about. His grip can pass as proper, and he isn’t bowing “smiley-faces.” It was not the complete train wreck I had been expecting upon arrival.

“Nice,” I say once he’s finished and waiting expectantly. “Mm. You’re decent. Do you know how to use vibrato?”

He nods mutely, then calls out quite loudly, “Yep!”

“I want you to sight-read this.” I pull open a drawer filled with Papá’s high school orchestra music. “…I presume you can play something at this level. You may stop at measure twenty-seven.”

“Can I hear you play first?” he whispers, head tucked into his chest where I can scarcely hear a word.

I reach for my violin. I’m lucky I’ve played this piece before—sight-reading is certainly not my strength, though it’s doable.

As I play, I keep a wary eye on Raphael. The wall has his primary interest, his hands are tightly gripping his violin, and he’s unmoving. Completely still. For the entire twenty-seven measures. “Your turn,” I grunt crossly, putting my violin back into the case. “Were you even li—”

“You have a _wiiideee_ vibrato, Mr. Castillo! It sounds pretty! But when you play on your E-string, your intonation’s a bit too flat.”

First I am flattered, then I am infuriated. I’m always a sore loser about lacking perfect pitch, especially because my biological Mum and Dad were pianists. Mamá says being born with perfect pitch is irrelevant to how well you can play. I doubt it. At least _she_ has _relative_ pitch.

“If you’re so high and mighty, you can teach yourself,” I spit.

“I’m just saying so next time you sound better!” Raphael giggles spryly, raising his bow hand and leaving it on top of his head. “I’m not saying you sound _bad._ I personally think you sound amazing! Better than YouTube players like Lindsey Stirling, and stuff! I mean, you’re not completely tone-deaf, sir.” He keeps talking, even when I give him the evil eye. Blah, blah, blah…

“…Right. Okay. Just play ‘til the twenty-seventh measure,” I say as soon as he stops, aggravated and simply wishing for him to be out of my face already. Raphael draws another ten breaths. I wait.

“Is it in four-four time?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I say sarcastically. _Can you not read? Four on top of a four? 4/4?_

“And how fast is it?”

I tap the music stand. “Hundred-thirty beats. Sounds like this.”

He’s off before I can even think about adjusting the stand in his direction—but he’s as accurate as he would’ve been with the sheet in front of him. For a few seconds I watch him in complete awe. It’s enough time to feel ashamed: his vibrato, his posture, his intonation. He’s made teacher inferior to student.

“Stop!” I shout around measure thirteen. Raphael’s bow drips from the strings, emitting a horrid creaking sound, and irrationally I feel better about myself. “You’re not sight-reading,” I say.

“Um, I guess not,” Raphael drawls uncomfortably.

“It hardly seems you were trying to. The music is right here in front of me.” Huffing, I get to my feet and spin the stand to face him. “Why aren’t you sight-reading?”

“I can’t.”

“Then how—hey, you insolent, cocky brat! Look at me when I talk to you!” I explode, slamming my fist on the top of the piano. Raphael jumps, but he still doesn’t meet my eye, and it only pushes my temper further. “What, pray _tell,_ is your issue? How can you stand to brag about yourself and criticize others—others who are superior to you—”

“How come _you_ can boast and put _yourself_ up on a p-pedestal?” Raphael stammers. He isn't the kind to stand up for his beliefs; this must be his first time, it seems.

“At least I’ve the decency to look others in the eye when they address me. You are the rudest student I’ve ever had to put up with.”

“I can’t help it!”

“You perfectly well can.”

Raphael stamps his foot. “I really can’t! _You’re_ the one who’s rude and ignorant! I have no idea what sheet music is supposed to look like. You can’t write music in Braille, can you?”

“What—”

“I have two good ears and they’re all I can rely on so I’m going to…I’m going to use t-them!”

We stare each other down—finally—as I slowly process what he must mean.

“…That’s classic,” I say. “You memorized the entire twenty seven measures and can casually spout it out?”

“Sorry,” Raphael mumbles glumly.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Well, obviously, you aren’t happy with what little ability I’ve made of myself.”

“Are you happy with your own ability?” I reply.

He shakes his head.

“…Then no one will ever respect you,” I say evenly. “Learn to respect yourself first.”

“Awww, that’s bullshit,” he whines.

“If you let me, I can spare some of my dignity to teach you. But you have to learn to shut up.” My face turns red. “And you can teach me to fix my…intonation, or whatever.”

“And your big fatso ego?” Raphael adds merrily. He’s no longer cowering in a human-sized tortoise shell. “Okay! Okay. I am a-okay with this arrangement.”

I awkwardly pull the stand back towards me. “What don’t you like about your own playing?” I say, trying for calmness, because for Christ’s sake, I now have a blind violinist on my hands.

“Oh! That’s easy! I want to be able to hit notes faster. I have to play by ear so I don’t know where to put my fingers at first and there’s a split nanosecond you can hear me play the wrong note,” Raphael responds. He’s looking at me with joyful yet unfocused eyes (they’re quite grotesque, in all honesty); I frown at his eagerness towards sudden friendship. “What don’t _you_ like about my playing?”

Frantically, I rack my mind for some flaw. I’d have to be nit-picking. “Your staccato is sloppy,” I decide, “and you rush a tad, towards measure ten.”

“Which one’s measure ten?”

“Why don’t you count it yourself? It sounds like this,” I inform him, grabbing my violin. “Listen to the way I play the sixteenth notes. You rush this part.” As I demonstrate, he turns into a lifeless statue: his listening posture. He closes his eyes. I see him smiling a little and I don’t know if he knows he’s smiling. The end of measure twenty-seven brings him back to life, at once, and he scrambles to reiterate the music.

It sounds better than last time. He’s too good. I’m almost relieved when the clock says it’s time for Raphael to get lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just realized this isn't only a modern au but it's more of a musician au?
> 
> And Raphael is blind. Well,,
> 
> I know in The Book of Lost Things, Roland had many brothers and sisters and he was the eldest, so technically he would've "inherited the estate" that once belonged to his father. So in this scenario his father owns a music store that's supposed to get passed down to the older child.
> 
> I wrote this a long time age, and I've never done anything with it 'til now; it's been such a long time and a lot of the sentence variation, etc. sucks and I'm trying to fix it but it's a pain in the butt so don't expect a lot
> 
> Thanks for reading!??!?!


	3. Chapter 2 - Roland

“I’m not cut-out to teach somebody like him. Wouldn’t Mrs. Hua get more out of her money if Papá—”

“Quiet, _mijo,”_ Mamá admonishes, delivering a scoop of beans and rice to my platter. She moves down the table to fill my little brother David’s plate. “You’re a smart boy.”

“ _Sí._ I won’t have this kind of talk from my eldest son,” Papá breaks in, irked by my side of the story as usual. “When I’m gone, you’re going to take care of the store, and a teacher with low self-esteem is no good. Don’t be a pessimist—if this Raphael is better than you, learn from it.”

“Yes,” David whispers happily. “I think you play good on violin, Roland.”

I give him a sideways look. It says thank you and _it’s ‘well,’ not ‘good’_ simultaneously.

“Fine, Mamá. I’m only telling you because if Mrs. Hua comes complaining—”

“She won’t,” Mamá promises. She kisses the top of my head and sits down with the rest of the family, looking down into her dinner and not saying much else when Papá’s banter resumes. I excuse myself as quickly as possible, and David follows.

“Why don’t you brush your teeth?” I tell him. “It’s eight. Bedtime.”

_“¡Sí! ¡Ya me voy!”_

I’m positively gracious for the fact that Mamá has decided to separate my bedroom from David’s. Something about me gets him excited and hyperactive, particularly at night, and nobody in the family appreciates him running up and down the hall that late, honestly.

I can’t believe I have to see that Raphael tomorrow. What if he gets better overnight? Do prodigal musicians like him work that way? He judges me…

I roll over and stare with utter dislike at the clock. Eight twenty-two p.m. How can it be that late? I feel like I’m wasting my life away, at school, at home, at the stupid store—no matter what I’m doing.

 

_You thought you were there to guide me_

_You were only in my way_

_You were wrong if you think that I’ll be_

_Just—like—you_

 

First I’m confused, because I don’t have my earbuds in (and I deleted all my Three Days Grace) from my iPod shuffle, and then I realize it’s coming from down the hall.

“David!” I groan, maniacally fumbling out of bed. He’s sitting with crossed legs, outside my door, and Papá’s old laptop is under hand. He’s playing the music straight from the Safari browser. “David,” I breathe out, “what are you doing?”

 _“Este canción es bonito. Te gusta, ¿verdad?”_  
>This song is pretty. You like it, right?

“David, where did you get this?” I nick the laptop from his grubby, dinner-stained lap, and he smiles in response.

“Papá leaved it on the table.”

“Why are you listening to—?”

“The lyrics are pretty,” he answers obediently. “I want to be ‘just like you.’”

“David, that’s not what the song means.” I’m stuck searching for further justification. When I first heard of Three Days Grace, in childhood, I listened without knowing the lyrics; now that they make sense in my head I don’t enjoy them as much. It makes me feel like crying, and when that’s in front of David, it’s not the right time. “You shouldn’t listen to this music. It’s not for children.”

He doesn’t seem inclined to protest.

“Did Papá say you could use YouTube? Don’t go on YouTube anymore, please. There are bad things on that website.” I bend over to scoop him up—he’s getting a tad too big for this—and carry him to his room. “Sleepy time.”

“Okay…But you should listens to Three Days Grace again.”

The bed creaks as I practically cram David beneath the duvet. _“¿Por qué?”_ >Why?

“You got very happy,” he said. He sinks into the pillow and grins dopily. “You used to sing with the songs out loud…you were just playing, so it sounded bad…but you still got very happy.” As his eyes close, he begins to repeat the entire speech in Spanish.  _You got very happy._

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I say. “Good night.”

_“Buenas noches.”_

Even if it’s the most innocent, guileless, well-intended statement he could’ve uttered in our native language, I feel a pang of worry. He’s starting kindergarten next year and he’ll have to step up his _inglés_  if he doesn’t want to be the butt of everyone’s joke.

* * *

“Can I hear what you’re listening to?”

“No. Set up,” I reply haughtily, waving a dismissing hand even if Raphael can’t see it. In a moment of self-consciousness, I pause the music—Three Days Grace—on my iPod. “We have a lot to work on today.”

Raphael’s hand slips, for a second, as he makes an attempt at adjusting his shoulder rest. I take his violin and do the job for him. “Can I listen to it after class?” he persists.

“Why does it make a difference to you?”

“It compensates,” he says, “for not being able to see what your face looks like.”

“If you impress me someday, I’ll consider.”

Why does he want to see my face? Curiosity killed the cat. I’m not handsome or even remotely pleasant: God blessed me with crooked teeth, a squared chin, an off-putting nose, and these mundane green eyes that don’t match anything I wear. “Here. Play me your D-major scale,” I say.

He does it haphazardly, but at least when he’s done he sets the instrument in his lap and scoffs in disgust. “You haven’t taught me how to hit the right notes faster.”

Last night I spent some time thinking that part of Raphael’s training over. Despite hating my job here, I take it seriously.

Being unable to see what you’re playing is a bit of a tosser.

“Hand me your violin,” I say.

Raphael nearly destroys the instrument against the wall, whining jokingly, “I can’t see you,” “where are you,” “your voice is too far from here,” “get it yourself next time!”

Teaching this twat for a living has me so angry I forget to tell him what I’m doing, and if he’s okay with it. He has a cheap violin, not the kind I’d step up on a stage with, but some parents and children are unbelievably picky about what comes in contact with any part of their instrument.

Apparently Raphael hears me cutting strips of tape and plastering them to his fingerboard. He doesn’t complain. He sits up, smiling. “I’ve never played with tape before,” he confides.

“It may or may not help,” I say flatly. For most students, avoiding tape at all costs would be the preferable method of learning, but Raphael should be an obvious exception to any teacher. “How did you originallylearn where to put your fingers?”

“My oldest teacher said that even if I could feel the tape under my finger I wouldn’t know which tape it was and so it defeated the purpose, and then she tried to teach me the basic fingering without tape, which worked to some extent only it’s never fast enough for me.

“But don’t take my oldest teacher’s word for anything. She was bad, bad bad because her nieces came to stay at her store every Monday and Wednesday and since they always fought she had to leave every five minutes to break up the argument. If she wasn’t yelling she was on the phone with someone else.

“And this is completely irrelevant I s’ppose but then my next teacher, she tried to make me read sheet music in Braille. She wasn’t as bad as the last except she had a short temper and she yelled whenever I couldn’t understand what I was feeling under my thumb and instead of actually reading it I began to memorize what I heard her playing. So now my memory is ultra-good and I can memorize whole pieces but as of lately I’m too concerned in intonation to remember every little bit, and how will I ever perform in an orchestra? There are too many parts to pick out and I can do it with time but an ideal conductor would want me to learn right away. Plus where will I hear from? The orchestra never plays perfect the first time.”

I tap my foot. _(You done yet?)_  “Well, I can help you with all that.” I don’t know what else to say, but I’ve gotten him to stop rambling about his own experiences. I place the last strip of tape down, test my placement with a quick D-major scale, and look admittedly worriedly towards Raphael. “Does that sound right to you?” I probe.

“I dunno, I ain’t listening!”

“Well, listen.”

“…It sounds good! Except the G- and D-string. Those are too flat. Make it higher.” He cocks his head, moderately frozen in place, as I peel and reapply the third tape. “Wait, play it again?”

I stifle a sigh and pluck the stupid D-major scale.

Raphael rubs his chin happily. “Never mind! It sounded good before you moved it. Put it back.” After I repair the mess he’s made, he takes the violin from me and feels the added feature beneath his fingertips. “How am I supposed to know what’s what?”

I scoot closer on my chair and begin to align Raphael’s fingers with the tape, explaining bit by bit what notes he can access from each position. His pinkie is unstable no matter how often I correct it.

All of class is spent trying to locate naturals—between the first and second tapes—but Raphael promises to practice with the tape more often.

“Won’t people see the tape?” he worries, tugging on my sleeve as we walk side-by-side out the back hall. “They’ll laugh like crazy at me. Only beginners have tape! I’ve been playing since before kindergarten—I’m not a _beginner—”_

“The tape is black,” I lie, “so nobody will notice or laugh at you. And if they do, you can take a spoon,” I pantomime stabbing someone before I realize Raphael can’t see my theatrics, “and gouge their eyes out. See how well _they_ can memorize and play Bach afterwards. Okay?”

* * *

“How much did this cost?”

“Don’t worry about that, Roland. You’re always worrying. Instead, think about the benefits.”

I’m still apprehensive. 3D printers are expensive. We’ll have to sell at least four new trumpets to pay one off, and even if economic times haven’t been as hard as they once were, I can tell that Mamá has got to get a hold of her impulsive buying.

 _“Aquí tienes,”_ Papá says, removing a packet of basic, level one sheet music from the chamber and offering it to me. ( >Here you are.) “Today, start teaching Raphael how to read that. Don’t lose it.”

“Yes, Papá, sir. _Gracias.”_

“How are you getting along with Raphael?” Papá inquires absently, moving over to make 3D copies of more advanced music (also for guess-who).

“Better, I suppose.”

“Why do you suppose? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon,” Papá says. “You have to think _something_ about him.”

Up until now I didn’t think it was possible to let something so dangerous slip from your mouth:

“He’s got a good face and cute eyes and a perfect nose and nice hair, but charm doesn’t compensate for a pompous attitude. And what’s the point of looking good if you can’t even see it?”

Papá rubs the 3D printer in dark thought. “He’s charming?”  
  
“… _I_ only reckon,” I say. I’ve realized my fatal mistake a little too late, and still I try to patch it up. “He’s aesthetically charming, Papá…Like, if I was a girl, I’d date him, you know?”

“If you were a girl,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes. If.”

“Good.” Papá ruffles my hair—a passive warning. “Remember what God’s will is, son. You’re no little girl.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” I say frantically. “I’m comfortable—I’m—I’m a man, _sí, señor_.”

“Then what did you mean?”

_“Pues—”_

“It’s Adam and Eve, Roland,” Papá interrupts, giving me an expectant look as he heads towards the door, “not Adam and Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if Roland (ESPECIALLY DAVID) sound out of character, it's a modern au so I mean they don't talk like it's the Middle Ages?? Also David doesn't have a British accent bc he's adopted and didn't grow up in England like in The Book Of Lost Things, forgive me
> 
> Also, 3d printers for blind musicians are somewhere on the internet (I read about them someplace but can't find anymore about it?) and 3d sheet music is a real thing it's just like regular sheet music but...well, 3d, so you can feel it with your hands. Braille sheet music is also a thing but that looks complicated af,


	4. Chapter 3 - Roland

“Half. Whole. Sixteenth. Quarter. Whole.”

“Faster,” I order, my grip on Raphael’s wrist tightening as I run his pale fingers over the last few measures of the paper. It’s the Suzuki Method, Level I—a basic but efficient series I myself learned by, in kindergarten—so I anticipate much of him.

He’s smart. And he’s been practicing with the 3D paper for a week now. I know there has to be some progress somewhere.

“I got this,” Raphael says. “Eighth, whole, dotted half, quarter, quarter.”

“Mhmmm.”

“I’m faster than you think!”

I drop his hand and turn the page to something more complicated. I try not to sound impressed when I say, “Yes, good. I still need to test you on the letters of each note.”

“I studied! Leggo!” His fingers wiggle incessantly, but reach a standstill once I hold his hand again. We glide over the white mountains popping from the sheet. Technology advancements are amazing.

“What note is this?” I ask. Raphael scrunches up his nose. He patently specializes in hearing—not physically feeling. Or is he just slow in this field? He can recognize his violin case, shoulder rest, bow, and rosin fine.

“I don’t know,” Raphael sighs, crestfallen.

“Feel it until you do,” I stress. “Remember these spaces—feel between the four lines—spell out FACE. Where’s the note?” He doesn’t say anything. “It’s between these two lines.” I run his thumb back and forth, peering hopefully at his face for a sign of understanding. Nothing. “It’s an F, Raphael. If you feel a note—”

Quarter note,” he cries. “It’s a quarter note, Mr. Castillo!”

“…Yes. Quarter note. But you need to be able to identify it as an F, too. And, in this case, the key signature makes it an F-sharp. Can you feel the key signature? The sharps are…remember? They’re cross-hatches. And the flats are like short lines with a skinny loop on the right. Do you understand, Raphael?”

I speak with the added confidence of knowing Raphael is listening: his body’s motionless and he tips his head towards me.

“…Sorry, what was that?” Raphael breaks in, his posture shattered and his hands drawing away. “Repeat that for me, yeah?”

So I do. I bottle my annoyance and frustration.

Raphael nods, throwing his hands back over the sheet music eagerly. “You should’ve told me that sooner! It’s _so_ much easier now! Rightey! Let’s try again.”

This time, he can cut through the sheet music in no time. The only obstacle left in his path is the matter of memorization—but at least he won’t be doing it all by ear anymore.  
Soon he’ll join an orchestra. Any orchestra. They’ll have to take him, despite his disabilities, because he’s better than the rest of the students. I know it. I didn’t spend three weeks reviewing intonation, vibrato, and Braille-less sight-reading for nothing.

“Eighth F-sharp and D…F-sharp…D,” babbles Raphael, happily passing over the notes, now without my assistance. “C-natural…D…F…”

“Can you tell what song it is?” I say in attempt to be friendly.

“No. I can’t hear it in my head yet!” He raises his head and grins widely, blankly. “And I’ll probably need the note chart to memorize and play it when I get home.”

“That’s quite acceptable.”

“But I’ll play it!”

“If you can recognize it…”

“Do I get a prize?” he jokes, so eagerly I’m almost afraid to say no.

“I’ll let you listen to the music on my phone,” I invent at the last moment. I remember him asking to share my music, three weeks ago.

“That’s all? Never mind.” He stands slowly. “I’d rather listen to you talk.”

When he leaves, I’m left to wonder what about my hoarse, crackly voice could be even remotely favorable in anybody’s blind eyes.

* * *

David comes running at me with his church robes billowing behind him and his arms outstretched in restrained excitement. Even if Sunday is bleak—boring to say in the least—and the choir makes the hours go by no faster, I open my arms and smile for him.

“Alyssa got the solo,” David cries. He hangs onto my neck like he has death intent. “For next Sunday.”

“She sings well, doesn’t she?”

Personally, she doesn’t, but nobody in the children’s choir does.

_“Sí—no me gusta cantar, pero cuándo es ella…”_ His face pulls back to look at me. “Did you see the whole thing?”

“I sit through church as long as you do, David. I have to come to all of your performances. It’s part of worship,” I explain, releasing the hug and taking him by the hand. He doesn’t seem to understand certain things, no matter how many times the situation is set before his eyes. If the priest preached in Spanish, he’d probably get everything better.

_“¿Dónde están Papá y Mamá?”_

“Papá is waiting outside. And there’s lots of work back at the store, so Mamá couldn’t come today.” I don’t say she’s working because business isn’t faring well lately. Splurging on the 3D printer had helped no one.

“Oh.” David lets me guide him out the door. “Promise that even when you have a lot of teachings, you’ll still come on Sundays to my choir performance.”

Like Papá would ever let me out of God’s hands. Ha, ha. “I promise,” I say, hooking our pinkies.

We’re walking towards the parking lot when David stops sharply. He points to the bulletin board and tells me, in Spanish, to _look, doesn’t that blind student named Raphael need to join an orchestra? He should play in an orchestra or at least with other people. Make him try out. It’s the honors orchestra you wanted to try out for this year. Loooook._

I concede and take him to the stupid board. “What is it you have to show me so badly?” I hiss.

David’s too short to pull his targeted flyer from the cork, so after the fourth (futile) jump I remove the tack for him.

“Read it,” he begs. Being unable to read, he makes me vocalize anything he can’t infer: _is that a laundromat or a bakery? Roland, can you says it out loud for me? ¿Por favor?_

The flyer bears the logo of the South Fork Honors Orchestra. I already have one of these papers, at home, pinned to my door in constant reminder of the date for auditions: February 10, less than a month from now. Papá is friends with the conductor, which overrides the fourteen years+ rule when it comes to me.

“Raphael can’t join this, David,” I say evenly, passing it to him in case he’s interested in the photos attached. “He’s not old enough.”

“He’s as old as you.”

“Yeah…but his dad doesn’t have ties with the conductor.”

Confused, David puckers his lips and brings the flyer closer to his face. He’s pretending to examine it from different angles in the sunlight.

_“El papá de Raphael no tiene los lazos con el profesor,”_ I translate. “Besides, David _—_ Raphael doesn’t like performing in groups.” He asks why. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I pin the flyer back where I got it and turn to him. “Some people perform better on their own. Alone. Solo.”

“Really? He should sucks it up and tries out,” David says, “‘cause even if he’s blind he plays gooder than the whole elementary orchestra!”

We do our hurried run across the parking lot and I help him into his booster seat. I grin at him before shutting the right door. “You’re right,” I say. “You couldn’t be more right, David.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously David is not good with speaking English but I don't know how to write that without exaggerating horribly; I'm so sorry you had to read David's dialogue;;;; I try to use the same typos I make when learning a new language but learning English is completely different than the deal at school.
> 
> Also as you may tell, Spanish is my second language and it's not very good, I'm not even "fluent" yet, so sorry if there are grammatical errors >>''
> 
> Also Alyssa (I'll use her more later) is David's wife in the Book of Lost Things.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s no work at the store on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. No school, either. Maybe that should be my first priority.

I was planning on deep-cleaning my bedroom, which is already as organized as I can keep it, but Mamá insists I take David to play at the park. Since David spends most of his childhood lumping around the music store, playing in the musty corner with Papá’s cracked iPhone, I succumb without much of a fight. We walk to the park and sit down for a lunch break at the benches neighboring the playground. He tells me he’s not hungry and, before I can stop him, waddles off to play on the monkey bars.

I watch him struggle in vain for five minutes before deciding enough is enough. I put away the containers of rice Mamá packed, and sprint over to support his lanky body dangling from that metal death trap he so loves.

“You have to reach your arm this way,” I call up to him. His arms aren’t long enough to pull himself to the next bar; I carry him a step closer to his destination. “You can do it.”

“Never mind.” Wiggling agitatedly, he drops into the sawdust and claps his dirty hands. “That’s too much works.”

“It is,” I agree, “but when you get bigger and stronger, it won’t be so much work.”

David nods and subtly begins to nudge me towards the swings, which aren’t fully occupied as we usually find it. “How did _you_ get bigger and stronger? You done it so fast too.”

“It depends. At what?”

“Violin and volleyball and karate and being smart. Push me please,” he adds, writhing into the “big kid” swing. Once I’m certain he’s holding on with both hands, I move forward.

“I’m better at some things than others,” I point out good-naturedly. “I don’t do karate anymore, and I quit after five weeks.”

“You were good at it.”

“If you told me to chop a board now, I’d break my hand.”

“Oh no. I won’t make you chop boards then.”

I smile, allowing the creaking of the playset fill the would-be silence— _squeak, squeak_. We’re both comfortable, I know; the park is all to ourselves.

“Roland,” he screams over the wind. “Can you tell me a tale?”

“What kind?”

“Tell me again,” he says zealously, “about what it was like before my own Mum died and I comed to live with you. Tell me what happened before I was David Castillo.”

I laugh nervously. “How about Alexander the knight instead? You like that story a lot. Don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I do, tell that one.”

I begin to retell the tale of the soldier named Alexander, who’d been wounded in battle and was left in state of near-death. It was a long story—and it felt longer when I told it in Spanish, having spoken more English in my lifetime:

> _Alexander woke up in an unfamiliar house, his wounds tended to and a plate of wine and food at his bedside. He tried to leave the room, but found the door locked, and a strangely-veiled woman appeared in his mirror._
> 
> _“Can I not look upon the face of the one who has saved my life?” asked Alexander._
> 
> _“I choose not to allow it,” the veiled Lady replied. “I have done more than I wished for you, but I will not allow you to roam my house. None have entered this place in many years. It is my domain. When you are strong enough to travel, then I will open the door and you must leave and never return.”_
> 
> _And, after many days, the Lady fell in love with Alexander. Even once he healed she failed to send him away. So in time he begged for her to reveal her face to him._
> 
> _She complied._
> 
> _It was the face of a woman crossed with that of a beast, a wild thing of the woods, like a panther or a tigress. Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but he could not, so shocked was he by what he saw._
> 
> _“My stepmother made me this way,” said the Lady. “I was beautiful, and she envied me my beauty, so she cursed me with the features of an animal and told me that I would never be loved. And I believed her, and I hid myself away in shame, until you came.”_
> 
> _The Lady advanced toward Alexander, her hands outstretched, and her eyes were filled with hope and love and a faint flicker of fear, for she had opened herself to him as she had never before opened herself to another human being…_
> 
> _But Alexander did not come to her. He backed away, and in that moment his fate was sealed._
> 
> _“Foul man!”_

(In the past I’ve been asked to omit this part, but she basically eats Alexander.)

“So, what’s the lesson you learned?” I ask when I’m done.

 _“Hombre falta._ Foul man,” David giggles. I flick his ear and he sweetly folds his hands on his lap. “Um—um—love isn’t defined by what you see.”

“Exactly.”  
  
“We’re gooder off with no seeing. We should all be blind. And then no one can judged anybody for what they saw, just for what they feel—”

“No, David, you can’t take away everyone’s—”

“’Ey! What’s _up,_ Mr. Castillo! It’s a fine morning for Martin Luther King, Jr.’s special day! _¿Y tú hablo español? ¡Aye!”_

My first instinct is to punch whatever scared the living daylights out of me, but I’m glad I stop myself. Raphael is standing behind me, one arm looped around his mother’s. They’re both wearing faded jogging clothes—except he’s wearing sunglasses under 50˚F, overcast skies.

“Good morning, Roland,” Mrs. Hua says courteously, bowing as she wipes the sweat off her forehead. (How fast does she run with Raphael? Doesn’t he trip on his own feet?) “I saw you here and I thought Raphael would want to say hello.”

“That was nice,” I say with a polite nod. “How are you?”

“Great!” Raphael shouts. “We’re going to run another mile after this!”

Just when I forget about him, David pops out of his seat and rushes up to us, crowing, _“You’re_ the Raphael _mi hermano_ is always talk about. The one he teaching. Right?”

“This is my little brother,” I blush—I feel the heat reaching my ears, but my voice isn’t breaking yet. “His name is David. He takes pleasure in calling himself my squire, as in, you know, when we play pretend.” David beams at me. “David, this is Raphael.”

“Where is he?” Raphael says.

“Here!” My brother extends his hand to meet Raphael’s, and he takes it shakily, but they’re both smiling at each other.

“How old are you, buddy?” Raphael asks kindly.

“Five.” David begins to shy away. “I’m gonna…start…kindergarten next year. Then I’ll turns six.”

I stop myself from apologizing for David’s poor grammar.

“Six! I remember when I was six!” Raphael cries. He kneels down to David’s height and continues to shake their hands. “Six is going to be a big year for ya! When you start school, you’ll get to make friends, learn new things—and you’ll learn to read! That’s the best part!”

“Really? How did it become possible for _you_ to learned to read?”

Raphael doesn’t seem at all affronted. In fact, he inflates a little more. “Well, yeah, you’re going to learn a different kind of reading than me. I can only read Braille! Braille is the little lumps that stick out of the paper, or whatever it is I’m reading…and I feel it, and I can see letters in my head.”

 _“¿Puedes enseñarme?”_  David gasps dubiously.

“…He wants you to teach him,” I say. “Braille. Don’t take him seriou—”

“Oh! Of course, David! Anytime.”

Grumbling, I look to David and translate. _  
_

Mrs. Hua says something in an unfamiliar dialect of Chinese. It doesn’t sound ill-intended, but when Raphael responds—in Chinese—he sounds miffed, and honestly, very cheeky. They begin to clash in varied pitches of strange words.

Mrs. Hua finally wins. “Well, nice to see you, Mr. Castillo!” Raphael calls. “And you, David!”

 _“Adiós,”_ David says, taking my hand. _“Mi hermano_ looking forward to teaches you tomorrow. Every day, he does. _Porque—”_

Stricken, I slap my free hand over David’s mouth. I feel him beginning to spit on me and I avoid acknowledging it. “What he says—it’s far from the truth,” I blunder stupidly. “He likes to make stories up! No big deal. Bye, Raphael. Have a nice day, Mrs. Hua.”

“You too,” she nods.

“By the way, Mr. Castillo,” Raphael adds as he links arms with his mother, “you’re really good at story-telling! I didn’t mean to overhear, but I didn’t know you were fluent in Spanish either!” He looks as if he’s about to say more. If he is, the little voice in his head stops him. He begins to hobble alongside Mrs. Hua. “Bye!”

I wave and drag David back to the lunch tables before realizing Raphael couldn’t see my goodbye.

* * *

Raphael—or Mrs. Hua—takes David’s request seriously. On Tuesday, he shows half an hour before his lesson actually begins.

“He can’t even read normal writing,” I implore, standing over them. They’re crouching in the corner of the shop, and I’m risking Papá’s anger by coming here, but this is ridiculous. “What makes you think you can teach him Braille?”

Raphael doesn’t look up. From this angle, it seems his eyes are closed and hidden by the fringe of his hair; he isn’t wearing the pair of shades from yesterday anymore. “When I learned, I didn’t know ‘normal’ writing,” he says.

“I didn’t mean it like _that,_ bastard.”

“Okey-dokes!” He forgives fast and pushes his scribe towards David. “This is the letter A. It’s the first letter in the alphabet—right?” David enunciates the letter as we do in Spanish—like the A in “cat.” Raphael nods back in approval, allowing my brother to take his pen and create the dots himself.

“What was that story about?” Raphael interjects. “The one you were telling David at the park?”

“Why were you even listening?”

“Chill, I’m just curious, dude!”

“Don’t tell me to chill! It’s just creepy! You’re creepy. Girls don’t like it when boys spy on them in the locker rooms, so don’t you think boys don’t like it when other boys eavesdrop on them?”

He laughs a little. “Sorry! If you _really_ wanna equate this to peeking on you in the locker rooms. My mom just needed a pit-stop at the bathroom, so she left me waiting on the curb, and it wasn’t too far from the swings. I could hear you, and she told me you were there, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh, good on you.”

David and Raphael haven’t even made it to the letter C once the thirty minutes are up. Mamá comes to remind us to eat a snack as soon as possible. (David isn’t like most kids. He forgets to eat, an unhealthy number of times.) I can tell she’s preparing to offer Raphael a snack, too, so I show him to the backroom before she can do something stupid like that.

 _“Yo no sé que tú hablas chino,”_ I say in what I try to make an approachable tone, but it sounds just as stuffy, guarded and unfriendly as I hoped it wouldn’t be. “I didn’t know you speak Chinese.”

He speaks fast.

“What’s that mean?”

_“I am Chinese, what do you expect?”_

“David’s English and he speaks Spanish,” I point out. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

“…Hey, are _you_ white? My mom says you’re not.”

I realize quickly what trap I’ve set up for myself. I don’t want to lie and agree with being white; for some reason, I want my visual impression to be as accurate as possible. “No. I’m Mexican…so I’m sort of tan.”

Raphael doesn’t need me to guide him into the room today—he makes the right turn at the right time without my help. “Tan!” he repeats happily. “Hella tan. Okay…What color is your hair?”

“Black.”

“Eyes?”

“Green.”

“Braces, or nah?”

“No, but I’ll get them when I’m in seventh grade.”

“Big ears or small ears?”

“In between…”

“Face shape?”

“Kind of square-ish?”

“Interesting,” Raphael says, sort of sarcastically (why?), as he plops down on the piano cushion chair. Which leaves me with the faulty plastic chair he usually sits in. “Is David adopted or something?”

A pang of even more _WHY!?_ hits me in the chest, but I sit down anyway. I irrationally want Raphael to know:

“We both are,” I admit. “I was in the Norbury mall shooting. So. My birth parents, those are gone. My twin sisters were a year younger than me, and I had a two-year-old brother, and a baby sister.”

“Aw, man. I…man. Sorry, for, um, asking…God, I feel like a jerk! Your brothers and sisters, what were their names?”

I hesitate, unsure what he wants with useless words and no faces attached. “Isabel, Magdalena, Antonio, and Iris.”

“Those are pretty names. Iris is a flower. Flowers smell nice.”

“They do, don’t they? Ha, ha. Anyway, Mamá and Papá adopted me, and when I turned eight, they adopted David. His mom died of some sort of brain cancer, and his dad left her long before. He was only two years old. Even if his birth family spoke English and practiced Judaism, Papá brought him up with a mix of Spanish and English, and Christianity. I don’t suppose David ever got the hang of English, so sometimes he talks—funny. And when he’s angry, or when he cries, his complaints are in Spanish. I make attempts of speaking to him in English, but it’s a stretch to hope he’ll learn before school starts.”

“Hey, you underestimate that kid’s intelligence,” Raphael remarks, plucking the strings of his violin and tuning them accordingly. “You don’t think he can learn anything new. Unless it’s in Spanish.”

 _“I_ underestimate him? Do _you_ even know how smart he is in Spanish?”

“Not yet,” Raphael says casually. “But anyway, give the kid more credit! English is lame. Read and lead rhyme and read and lead rhyme, but read and lead don’t rhyme, and neither do read and lead. Also, how is the word _rhyme_ spelled? And is it spelled or spelt? Learned or learnt? Smelled or smelt?”

“Crucified Christ, you big baby, it’s not that hard.”

“For you, maybe! Do you know how long it took me to put Cantonese aside?”

“Spanish is _easier_ than Cantonese.” I stare at my feet, caught up in the intensity of our conversation. Unwillingly I conjure the traumatic image of a puddle of dark red fluid bubbling at my sneakers. My Converse. I was wearing black Converse the day it happened. Why did I buy black Converse last month? Now I’d be wearing them for another year, black Converse—

“Never mind, Mr. Castillo! We have better things to do!” Snapping me back to reality, Raphael tucks his violin under his chin. “I memorized that piece you gave me last week. And I think you owe me, ‘cause I figured out what song it is.”

The blood evaporates all at once and an icy palpitation fills my chest with relief. “And?” I say.

Again he laughs, perhaps to compensate for my lack of emotion. “I should play the first violin part,” he suggests, “and you can do second violin!”

“Fine. We’ll butcher it together.” I tune my instrument accordingly and position myself across from him, where I can see his face but he can’t see mine. I ask myself what expression he’d make if he was conscious of his facial muscles; right now, he’s still and staring.

“I hope your intonation got better,” Raphael teases.

I swallow my antipathy. “And I hope your flexibility, in terms of tempo, did.”

“I’ll tell you if your sound’s off.”

“And I’ll let you know if you’re not playing fast enough.”

So I tap my bow against the edge of the music stand, to the two hundred-thirty beats per minute we’re expected to play at, and he starts the bassline exactly when I want him to.

Even when the lesson is over, the words to the song ring incessantly through my head:

 

_I’m two quarters and a heart down_

_And I don’t want to forget how your voice sounds_

_These words are all I have so I’ll write them_

_So you need them just to get by_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy end I know but I just want Roland to be into punk rock music B) Also if you haven't heard the Vitamin String Quartet playing Dance Dance then you need to go hear it right now.
> 
> Again I'm sorry if the Spanish is wrong I am really clumsy in that language. Also sorry if this is going a little fast mehhhh???
> 
> Obviously the story Roland tells in the beginning is one of his tales from the Book of Lost Things and I loved that canon David was always asking Roland to tell stories and that is just a big aspect of being a child to me but that is besides the point,
> 
> Also disclaimer I more or less copy and pasted the story from Connolly's book but I think I edited some of my own parts into it, to summarize it rather than paste 3 pages of what you should've already read???
> 
> !! I KNOW RAPHAEL WAS BORN BLIND AND HE CAN'T SEE OR UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF COLORS BUT ROLAND IS KIND OF IGNORANT AND RAPHAEL DOESNT WANT TO SAY ANYTHING AND ANYWAY I COME BACK TO THAT LATER SO,


	6. Chapter 5 - Roland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JOIN AN HONORS ORCHESTRA AND CONTRIBUTE TO SOCIETY

**Log of Raphael’s Progress (and other stuff)**  
 **Jan. 21 –** Raphael learns to read key signatures without second-guessing  
 **Jan. 22 –** David makes it to the letter J in Braille and he’s wondering how an _ñ_ would look; Raphael comes an entire hour earlier to get it through to his dead brain  
 **Jan. 23 –** Raphael can play ten bpm faster; I repair the intonation on my E-string to Raphael’s likings  
 **Jan. 24 –** Raphael memorizes a piece by Tchaikovsky  
 **Jan. 25 –** Alyson has a nice choir solo; David reminds me about the orchestra tryouts; I ask Raphael if he’d like to come with me (he declines)  
 **Jan. 26 –** I correct minor bad habits in Raphael’s posture  
 **Jan. 27 –** Raphael is allowed one of those white walking sticks; he knocks over a box of spare guitar strings  
 **Jan. 28 –** Papá asks the conductor and consults Mr. Hua and now Raphael has to audition  
 **Jan. 29 –** I explain shifting position, according to tape, on the E-string; Raphael doesn’t get it but if I couldn’t see my fingerboard, I wouldn’t either  
 **Jan. 30 –** Practice shifting; Raphael shows me how to play a two-octave scale without needing reference notes  
 **Jan. 31 –** Raphael gets the hang of shifting; I take the tape off his violin

 

“No! I won’t do it!”

“Yes, you will,” I say calmly, though my teeth are gnashed and I’m fighting Raphael’s resistance just to make his seatbelt go click. I’m glad Mrs. Hua is coming, because her presence keeps Raphael from bashing my brain to liquid with his blind stick.

“No! NO!” Raphael squeezes out of my hold and trips over the curb of the sidewalk in attempt to escape. “I don’t want to! Not honors!”

“This is what you’ve been practicing for,” I insist. “You’ll be fine.”

Both our mothers are looking in concern. “You okay, _mijo?”_ Mamá asks.

“I don’t _wanna_  do this…” Raphael’s sadly playing with the car lock. He grabs me, eyes staring into the void. “What’re they going to make us do?”

“Play a two-octave scale, like we practiced,” I say, and gently peel him from my shoulder. “Shift on the E-string, like we practiced.”

“Oh, no,” he whispers.

Raphael stays quiet for the rest of the ride. He looks a little silly—scrunched up in the corner, in a pair of baggy sweatpants that make his ass nonexistent, and sporting a XL tee that reads AWESOME IN BED! I CAN SLEEP FOR HOURS. (He’s lucky the judges are laidback fellows who’ll probably show up in similar attire.)

Everything is okay until the car stops, and Raphael feels it. The door opens. He feels the draft of wind from outside, he feels Mrs. Hua’s arm pulling on his own, he feels me squeezing to get out of the back seat. He hears Mamá promising to be back before auditions are over, and the car roaring down out of supposed sight.

At first, he’s still and unmoving. Nobody says anything about the way he listlessly slumps forward when Mrs. Hua pulls him over the edge of the sidewalk, but he looks like he’s listening for something. There’s nothing to listen to. Nothing he’d freeze up for.

“How are you feeling?” I brush his elbow lightly. He swallows.“I’ll hold your violin,” I propose, “so just take your cane and we’ll be on our way.”

“I hold it,” Mrs. Hua says, taking the violin from me. She nudges her son and whispers something urgent. His Cantonese response sounds distressed.

“Raphael,” she sighs regretfully—like she doesn’t want to make him do this, either.

“Come on,” I say.

Raphael takes a step back. His feet slip halfway off the sidewalk, startling him greatly, and he wails, “I don’t wanna do it, Roland! I can’t do it! They’ve got better than a blind kid. I— _Roland!”_ He lurches forward and latches onto the front of my shirt, just barely. _“Roland you of all people know and understand please don’t make me, Roland I’ll give you my allowance and Roland you can teach me less hours if that’s what you want in exchange but oh please DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS!”_

“Oi,” I breathe, pushing away his sweaty hands to keep them from slipping all over me. “What are you so worried about?”

He begins to hyperventilate, breathing out little streams of Chinese in between.

“You’re a brilliant student,” I promise, though I have no idea what he said. “I would’ve asked my dad to take over my spot, in teaching, if you were _that_ bad. But I like teaching you. And the orchestra will surely love the chance to work with you, too.”

His cheeks are flushed and his Adam’s apple bobbing. I hear my name, once, in the middle of more nonsense, as if it were a question. Praying he’s not asking anything important, I pull him away from the street. Mrs. Hua appears just as anxious as her son—but she’s not intervening? Why isn’t she intervening?—and walks alongside the two of us.

“Listen, stop crying, _cabrón._ People are going to see you crying, and _then_ they’ll laugh and talk shit behind your back. Do you want them to know you’re a coward? I said I’d help you get over this, so I’m trying. I only ask that you try, too. Chin up.” I put a—what hopefully looks like—a friendly arm around him and press his head closer. I try to ignore the slight height difference, how he’s near equivalent to me now. (Future growth spurt, I am counting on you.) “It’s easy said and harder done, but a crybaby pussy is something you’re not, Raphael.”

He holds his stomach, mumbling.

“English?”

“He feel like throwing up,” Mrs. Hua explains. “It passes.”

With my arm still around him, albeit I was now watching out for his nausea, I wave at the nearest student, who’s probably a freshman in the district high school at the least. “Excuse me, where’s the line? For tryouts?”

“Uh, here.” She looks around in surprise. “…You know tryouts are only ninth graders and up, right?”

“Never mind. Thank you.”

“I think it is alphabet order,” Mrs. Hua says to me. She holds her hand out, and I let Raphael go.

Alphabetical order? I can’t remember any of last year’s students with the last name of H.

 

* * *

“You should take front row,” Jonathan Tulvey says.

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

“I’m the youngest here. Coming off as pretentious isn’t the first impression I want to make on everyone.”

Jonathan shrugs like he can’t understand what my point is. He was my stand partner last year: in the middle row of the second violins. Which means second-to-worst out of second-to-worst in the orchestra, if that makes sense.

Raphael gracelessly stretches across me to speak with Jonathan. “Hey, mister, what we gonna play?”

“It’s a seating test,” I interrupt, hoping it’ll keep any sarcasm Jonathan’s planning to himself. “It’s based on sight-reading. But for you, I’m sure the teacher could give you something you already know how to play.”

Jonathan rubs his chin. “If you’re blind, you’ll probably be her favorite student.”

“For what? Not being able to see my own violin? Oh no, if I were her, I’d save some pity for the mentally ill, too,” Raphael says dryly.

“Ha, ha.” Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Freshman.”

“Save it for later,” I warn, pushing their faces back into their own personal bubbles.

There’s a sudden hush over the rest of the students, and I realize that we three are the only ones talking. The teacher is looking our way—with only mild contempt, fortunately.  
“Morning, Roland,” she says, amused.

“Good morning, Ms. Rose.”

“I don’t know why you’re sitting all the way back there.” She jabs her pencil in Raphael’s direction; I’m sure he’d flinch, if he knew what was coming his way. “You there—new student—in the pajamas. Do you actually go out in public like that?”

After a pause, he realizes he’s the only ‘new student’ and straightens up dramatically. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Aw, I was just teasing,” Ms. Rose sighs, removing her baton from its case. “ I think I spoke to your father. You’re quite small. What do they call you, again?”

“Raphael Hua,” he shouts.

“Oh, I knew a Raphael once! What can you play, Raphael?” She stops to narrow her eyes. “And take off those ridiculous sunglasses. We’re indoors.” Raphael doesn’t budge, so I take the shades from his face at the last moment. Ms. Rose finds a short giggle in that, but she’s still waiting for his answer.

“Play Tchaikovsky,” I whisper. Like we practiced.

He clumsily raises his violin to set position. “Do you want me to play right now?”

“Sure, I guess—no pressure, l’il guy.”

I can’t complain about any part of Raphael’s piece. I’m frankly somewhat proud: he’s performed in front of everyone. That was something he didn’t think he could do, _I_ didn’t think he could do.

On the other hand, Raphael’s nose crinkles up when he finishes—did he hear an error I didn’t?—and he scowls into oblivion, waiting for Ms. Rose to say something.

“Not bad,” she concludes. “Okay, let’s get all the little ones out of the way first. Go on, Roland.”

Raphael flashes a wavering smile and thumbs-up at me. I’m so flustered I think I did better on last year’s playing test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO I KNOW THAT JONATHAN IS ROSE'S UNCLE AND THEREFORE SHOULD BE WAAAY OLDER THAN ROSE AND MAYBE I SHOULD'VE SWITCHED THE ROLES BETWEEN THE TWO BUT THEN ROSE IS ALSO DAVID'S STEPMOTHER IN THE BOOK OF LOST THINGS AND THAT'S JUST WEIRD, SO,,, the ages are all messed up but basically David is 6 years younger than Roland, and Jonathan is a senior so he's like at least 7 years older, maybe 8, Roland's not a high school student but he plays in the honor orchestra because he's more advanced than normal, sorry this doesn't make sense does it I hope it does ;;
> 
> Sorry if Rose seems ooc but tbh she had like 3 lines in the real novel

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I gave Roland a cheesy backstory in this modern au, but I swear I know where I'm going with this ;;
> 
> Also!! I know, presumably, that everybody in the Book of Lost Things is probably white...? Except I don't like that. So Roland is going to be Mexican, and Raphael will be Chinese, although David is from England so he's still pasty af.
> 
> gg friends and ty for reading


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